A Little Extra
by Foolscapping
Summary: SEQUEL TO 'THE LONG CALENDAR' AND 'THROUGH THE SEASONS'. Sam goes on a lunch date. That's exactly what it is. Sam POV. (Warnings for mental illness, post-hell trauma, and surprisingly, fluffiness. Featuring snooping Dean.)


**OOC:** Lil' additional thingy for **The Long Calendar** and **Through the Seasons** , where we finally get to see Sam go on that lil' date. It features a Sam POV, because I wanted to give it a shot and see if I could. Plus, Dean's POV would be him in a far booth being unable to hear anything, hahaha. PLEASE READ THOSE BEFORE YOU READ THIS, IF YOU WANNA KNOW THE LOWDOWN.

 **Warnings:** Mental illness via supernatural causes, mostly, and the occasional mention of a lack of self-worth or feelings of impurity. Usual Sam Winchester day in the life, am I right.

* * *

Dean's got me this — this nice shirt… shirt without any actual plaid, no colors, just white like a blank canvas or what angels should have been like, should've been cleaner and brighter than they really are. I'm, uh, feeling kind of nervous, actually. It's been so long since I've been… I mean, I know I _have_ been to a carnival once before on a date, and I know it was with blonde hair, all blonde, and I won her… a bear. It was definitely a bear, and her name was something beautiful. What was it — ? It was so beautiful. Why can't I ever remember what's important? Stupid. _Stupid._ Fuck. Dean said it, what did he say?

Jess. Short for Jessica. What a beautiful name. It makes my stomach feel light, but I'm not about to tell Dean that, because he'll just — just tease, the jerk-off. _Imvarmar, zorge, cnila_ — god, it's like it trickles in the moment I feel like panicking. Stupid shit. I knock on my head, try to get my thoughts straight. I wonder if I've ever been this nervous to take a girl to lunch. _Lady_ not girl. Sorry. We're not exactly baby chicks, right?

I can't even remember the last time I felt like a kid. I remember the things that kids like. I remember the sharp pain you get stepping on LEGOs, and I remember throwing an airplane into my brother's face. Don't remember why I did it, but he probably had it coming to him.

"Sam," Dean's voice wriggles, humming like busted eardrums after an explosion, "Stop unbuttoning your shirt, man. I just got you looking like a model. I mean, as long as we cover your face, she'll totally be sold on your look."

Dean's got a point. I rub my beard, and it scratches across my skin. My fingers're ugly, too, but I can't cut my fingers off like I can my beard; kinda need those. I do a lot around the house nowadays, and if I don't have any fingers, I can't take Bixy for a walk. Still, I'm just saying, a smooth face is probably preferred.

"I should shave," I say.

"Probably should, Tarzan," Dean's voice muddles, then comes in clear.

I _remember that_. Exactly what he's talking about. I should write it down in the notebooks, while it's still burning bright and strong and warm in my mind. Yeah… But then, I usually get pretty distracted when I try to scribble anything down. Even now, things feel so bright and light. Sometimes you just forget that your bones should have always been able to support your weight. They don't grind and crack beneath the pressure of your body. Of your soul. Sometimes you forget the sun is actually a constant source in the sky, warming the skin without bubbling it. Sometimes I just forget.

"Sam?" Dean asks cautiously, and I blink at him.

"Not a lot of Tarzan programs gave him beards, actually." I pause. "I guess he found razors in the jungle."

Razors are sharp. _Shlip, shlip, shing_ that's the sound. And then a _**scraaaape**_.

And then a thin red line (red string of fate), from collarbone to belly button —

 _God_ , don't be weird, Sam.

"Cute. Maybe I should ship _you_ off to a jungle," Dean grumbles, and I feel my grin forcing its way through, as I look down and away because it's embarrassing. It's embarrassing to feel all this love in your chest, but nowhere to direct it to besides the smile on your mouth. In your eyes. I feel all of them grinning on me, because… because Dean, you know? My hands decide to wring together on their own, but they're not bothering anybody, so I leave them be. But Dean looks a bit worried anyway, and I don't like to make Dean worry. He's my brother. _Esiasch_ , Michael would say. I always liked the way that word felt. But that's not my language anymore.

"Look — Sammy, you're a little fidgety and stuff. If you're not sure about this… you don't gotta do it."

I shake my head, swirling things around in there. "No… Man, I'm okay. Promise. I'll shoot a flare if I'm not, alright? I'll text you an S.O.S. and a frowning face. Or maybe a camera shot of me looking worried. Should we get a code word?"

"Oh my god, get in the car, damsel."

"Think you mean _Samsel_."

And Dean makes the ugliest surprised laugh in the history of ever.

And I just grin all over again, whether I deserve it or not.

My hands just keep wringing and my ears keep ringing.

And I try not to second-guess myself.

* * *

Two packets of sugar into my iced tea (not coffee, coffee'll make me more anxious, no thanks, no coffee), blonde hair, and a pretty smile. Bonnie has one of those faces that makes you hope everything she ever wants in life, she gets, someday, somehow. It's the way I felt about Jessica, if blurry memory serves me right. I wonder if Bonnie or Jess could even like me like I am now; if they knew how my head worked, would they really be here? I'm sitting here at this table hoping she'd never know how wrong it is, to subject her to my level of incoherent thought. Don't screw this up.

"You're always working in the garden, right?" I ask, because I think she'd prefer to talk about something she really, really loves, and she's always working on some kind of project when I'm leaving the house each morning. It's a schedule we both keep: she works, I walk.

She tucks her hair behind her ear, taking a sip of her tea. Hope she likes it as much as I do; it's my favorite, sweet and cold and soothing, not like tar or hot metal like lava. Don't be weird. Don't be weird. My teeth gnaws at my lip. I smile and nod. It's not that I'm not listening, because I am, and she's talking about her next project working on tomatoes or maybe grapes — maybe I need an extra pack of sugar.

"What do you like to do, Sam?" she asks, leaning on her elbows.

Ah. Um. Uh — my hands have minds of their own; they fan out on the table palm up, vocalizing my confusion. I think she's been glancing at my hands a lot. "Me?"

She laughs, brow crinkled. "Yeah. You. You know: _Sam._ Age a mystery, occupation a mystery, favorite TV show a mystery." She nods at my glass. "Well, I mean, I know you like tea. And sugar. You've put, like, seven packets into it."

 _Oh, shit —_

I rub my mouth with a hand. "Jeez, I'm addicted. I should probably brush my teeth pretty soon."

"Probably," she giggles, sweetly. She's so nice. I can't really compete with this kind of thing, can I? She deserves someone who actually thinks straight. After all, what am I, but some guy who started the end of the world? Or who drank demon blood? Or who lost his mind beneath her feet? My smile fades. I can feel it — Hell, weighing down the edges of my lips. I never smiled Down Below, and I think that's why; all those weights.

"I… " No, don't ruin this. At least make it pleasant. You're still capable of that much, man, don't go ruining her lunch and wasting her time. "I like to read. I mean, other than… drink tea. I love books. I get through a few a week; that's where I'm usually running off to in the mornings. The library's gonna run out on me sooner or later, but I don't have anywhere to be."

She seems relieved. Was I quiet for too long there? I sip my tea.

"I like movies more than books, but I really have a thing for poetry. Mostly because I was never any good at it, so I just respect the greats," she replies happily. "Dr. Seuss is the best poet, though. I know that's pretty weird, right? Grown-ass lady wanting to read a bunch of kid's books."

"No way!" I say, because it's _not_ weird. I know weird. And that's nothing freaky. "Poetry's poetry. I think I've read some of those when I was younger. I don't remember them very well, but I remember a cat in a hat. Close enough, right?"

We both laugh, which I think means things are good. And we talk.

I haven't talked with someone other than Dean like this in a long time.

Yeah, it's good.

She reaches out to my hands, though, and I pull them away. And I dare not look up, because I didn't mean to do that; stupid, stupid. Stupid, Sam. Sharp name, always cutting. Wish I could take it back; I always wish I could take it all back. I don't deserve to wear such a white shirt. I reach out quickly, gripping her hand.

"Bonnie," I say quietly. My heart's beating quick. I didn't want it to do that. "I'm just… I wanted to talk, and I think you're — so beautiful, and I love the way you laugh. And I love that you're even bothering sitting here with me…"

"It's okay," she says quickly, and I think she's blushing. "And there's nothing bothersome about being with you, you doof. I know you've had a hard life, okay? I mean, I hear about it sometimes from Dean. It used to be really bad… you, um. You know, I've lived next to you guys since… way long. Longer than a decade. I pick up on things pretty quickly."

 _Faonts —_

I blink it all away, the icy blue that feels like it's curling around me.

Bonnie rubs her thumb over my scars.

"I just wanted to get to know you. It doesn't need to be anything at all, okay? I just wanted to learn more; I feel like I've… watched you turn into a living person again." She looks up, looking like she'd just punched me in the jaw. Don't know why. "I don't mean — you've always been a living person! I… Crap, I just mean… more like you're comfortable in your own skin. I don't know. It's just good to see you like this. I'm super proud of you. Is that weird to say when you barely know a guy?"

I just shake my head. My eyes feel hot, and my throat sort of feels all weird.

She's kind. Too kind. I don't know what to do with it. I can't remember what to do with it.

I finally manage, "… If it's okay, we can do this sometimes. Come have some tea full of sugar, talk about books? Or, if you ever want help in the garden, I'd love to see how it works." It would be nice. Helping things live. Creating something green and good, instead of breaking it all down. Lucifer would have liked that, actually, but I won't want to think about what he'd like. It doesn't matter what he'd like; it's about what Bonnie likes.

"I'd like that," Bonnie says.

Relief pours through me. I chuckle hoarsely.

"It's good, to have a friend. To have lunch with."

By the end of it, we're getting up and I'm offering a hand, trying to remember how to finish these things, how to make a good impression. She takes mine and I grip hers between my palms, and she seems startled by how hers sort of vanishes. I guess I _do_ have big hands. And maybe my feet are big, then. Dean says as much, but I don't usually pay attention to him.

"Can I kiss your hand? Or would that be weird? I can't remember how to wrap these up."

Her brow furrows. She's bright red. "Oh man, that's pretty dorky… I say go for it."

Maybe I shouldn't, because I'm full of germs in ways I don't think people will ever get, and sometimes people die from my germs — but I give her hand a kiss anyway. "There! Now I'm an even bigger dork than I was before."

I grin.

She gets in her car and leaves, goes off to start her day, and I say a little prayer for her. I know I really shouldn't, because they don't listen to me — not really — but then I remember that Castiel is out there. So I pray a little extra and hope it's okay to take up the sound waves. My heart's still fluttering a lot, with blood crashing around like waves, tainted but warmed and (if only for a moment) cleansed by the goodness.

"Nice, Sammy, you did good," Dean's voice says, and then I realize it's not in my head, shoulders jumping before I can even turn completely — of course. Of course. That nosy ass, always snooping around. Probably hid like a pervert in the far back booth. Wish I'd known, so I could have called him one. I breathe a big sigh of relief, though, because I'm glad he's here. I would've felt all sorts of off, walking home. I'm really, really tired; talking to people, going out, trying to be perfectly sane… it's _hard_. "Oh, sure. I'm a regular stud muffin."

"Atta' boy. You even got a little kiss in; _smooth_ , killer, _smooth_. So you're gonna have a lot of dates in the future, right?"

His hand sits on the back of my neck. I _really_ needed that. God, Dean's got a lot of gray hair. God, someday he's not gonna' be here. I don't want to think about that. I let him lead me toward the exit, and he rubs my back. "… Don't know. Honestly, Dean… it was… It was nice. Really, really, really nice. But it's not something I want for her."

He actually seems surprised by that. _Why_? "You wanted to go out with her, didn't you? You had a really good time. Don't go screwing it up for yourself when she actually likes you back, man. Really. I could tell she likes you."

Warm. This diner, Bonnie, Dean. They're all _warm_.

"Yeah… I mean, I don't know. Wondering if she would run screaming if she knew more about me. If she knew how jacked up I am." I breathe in, I breathe out. It feels like being alive. Someday I'll have to do this on my own; why can't I stop thinking about that? Stop it, Sam. Just stop. I loop my arm around his shoulders. "Love you, man. Thanks."

"Ew, stop that," Dean says gruffly, kind of bashfully. It's funny. "Friggin' girly Sasquatch."

Yeah, I think, I sure am. It's a nice look on me.

I just wonder if tomatoes and grapes could really grow for me.


End file.
